THE UNWRITTEN SONG
It was dusk, and an orange sun lit the cloudy sky
He sat by the river side, and thought of photographs black and white,
On his lap lay his diary, blank;
Because now in the world he had things to do than write!
Nostalgia gave rise to an eternal confusion, a nameless longing made him cry;
Back he went to his childhood dreams,
Dreams, which, like the mighty river, had flowed past…
He went back to the good old days when he wanted to be a poet in life,
He thought of the world, a futile existence and mundane life,
A sudden desire seized the old man….
He wanted to live again…
He yearned, to make words rhyme again.